Okay

.37.

The window on my computer goes blank and I let out a heavy sigh. Somehow I managed the entire meeting without pissing off my dad but now I'm beat. Sagging back into the couch, I stare at the windows, the sky is gray and I wonder how much longer this shit weathers gonna last for. It's not helping me at all.

I've got a list of things I need to do for work. We're officially about to launch the marketing campaign and apparently I've been voted most suitable to go to a list of events to network. I hate doing that kind of shit. Where I have to put on a suit and drink cocktails while I talk business with a bunch of stiffs. It's always the same bullshit, one big giant pissing contest. It feels like that's all my life has ever been.

The first event is in a month and I'm already trying to figure out how to get out of it.

Letting my eyelids drop shut, the headache that bloomed in my temples while I maintained a positive persona for the past hour intensifies and I let my head tip back against the couch.

I can't take it anymore.

My chest feels heavy. Like my lungs aren't capable of expanding under the weight, leaving me to take shallow, ragged breaths. So I let all the air rush out, not bothering to fill myself back up with oxygen. It's quick, how fast my heart starts to panic, pounding harder with each pump until I can feel my pulse slamming through my body. But I don't give in, snapping my eyes open as I focus on the fan that's still whizzing around and the exposed beams that decorate the ceiling. 

It's weird how willing my body is to betray my mind. Each passing second my body becomes more adamant that I take a breath, muscles contracting against my will. My skin heats up, my heart racing until I can't fight it anymore and gasp for air.

My chest heaves, the headache worsens. And then my phone goes off with a text alert.

My first reaction is to ignore it. It's on the coffee table which means I'd have to sit up and grab it and now that I'm pressed into the back of the couch doing so feels like a marathon rather than just a short stretch of my arm. But if it's Mo and I don't answer he'll be pissed.

I'm supposed to be working on myself after all.

I'm not exactly sure how responding to texts is working on myself but whatever keeps the man pacified and keeps me out of the hospital or my parents house. The last thing I want is that.

God, it'd be like fucking high school again. Alone in that stupid house with all the fucked up memories. Though I guess I'd have a babysitter, some hired nanny to make sure if I did off myself Julia didn't have to find me. At least that was what my dad had said.

Doesn't matter.

I'm never going back to that house.

My phone alerts me again and I slowly break my gaze away from the beams of the ceiling and stretch my arm the short distance to my phone.

I was right. It's Mo.

I'm almost certain he hates it when I respond with "I'm still alive" but I do it anyway.

Mo: what have you been doing today?

Mostly nothing, minus that conference call.

Me: working

Mo: good. Have you ate?

I haven't. There's nothing in my apartment to eat.

Me: yes

The gray dots appear for a brief second before my phone lights up with an incoming call from Mo. I decline it.

Me: can't talk meeting

Mo: call me later son

Probably won't.

I let my phone dangle in fingertips before it slips to the floor with a thunk. It started raining at some point over the past few minutes and I feel my already shit mood plummet. Staring out at the balcony, my thoughts drift to how simple it would be. Everything would just go away.

Sucking in a breath, I shove myself off the couch. I need a distraction.

There's nothing in my apartment but I rifle through the drawers anyway, pulling open the fridge to exam it's empty contents before I go to the bathroom, tripping over my dirty clothes as I do. Stumbling into the bathroom, I brace myself on the sink not bothering to look at my sad appearance in the mirror before I open the cabinet above the toilet. It's a long shot but I'm desperate.

I haven't opened the cabinet once since I lived here but when the doors swing open there's an unopened bottle of cough syrup. Probably from Mo.

Snatching it from the shelf, I pick at the plastic that seals the lid. I can't for the life of me get my finger under the plastic to split it down the perforation, grumbling under my breath as I feel myself grow more desperate for relief from my thoughts.

"Come on." I mumble, giving up and using my teeth to tear through the plastic.

Uncapping it, I feel like I'm back in middle school back when Kenny wasn't a pot dealer yet and was almost in our social circle. He'd come over and as we played video games in my room he asked if we wanted to get high. I wasn't a newcomer to weed but Alec and Owen were, their curiosity peaked. But Kenny didn't pull out weed, instead it was cough syrup.

The four of us got the worst paranoid high ever but it didn't stop us from doing it a handful more times until Freshman year when Kenny upped his game to weed. We no longer had to suffer through the sour taste of cough syrup and we never looked back.

Pushing my palm into the lid, I twist the bottle open and drink half the bottle in one long horrible tasting gulp. The sticky medicine dribbles down my chin and I wipe it with the back of mind wishing like anything the relief was immediate.

But it never seems to be fast enough.

I contemplate finishing the bottle. But the residual taste is enough to deter me and if I don't drink the whole thing now that means there's some for later. It's a comforting thought as I drag myself to my bed and drop into it.

                              ————————

Guys tomorrow's chapter. I'm excited for.

Also, someone added Owen to their "kinky shit" reading list 🤣. What?